


Friendship Is...

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bonding, Domestic Fluff, Feels, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Slice of Life, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 05:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12052449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: A collection of precious moments that various Inquisitors spend with their best friends.





	Friendship Is...

Friendship is a difficult thing to put into words, no less so than love is (and, really, sometimes the two flow into one another, with the boundaries growing smudged and hazy). But many of those that, in a multitude of different timelines and alternative realities, have been Marked by the Anchor, and ended up leading the Inquisition, still do try. And sometimes, they even succeed - for they have a treasure trove of memories at their disposal; a whole wondrous archive to choose from, leafing through the cherished entries and juxtaposing them against this curious word. Friendship.  
  
  
Friendship is when the Iron Bull looks away from the smoking wreckage of the dreadnought, before the frothing grey jaws of the sea are quite finished munching it up, and his boss, Issala Adaar, rests her hand over his thick, pale-scarred arm, and does not let go throughout his conversation with Gatt; this one last talk with one who was once his brother, which dooms him to a life of an outcast, unwanted and despised, a Tal-Vashoth like her. She does not let go - and he knows why. He has looked into her background (because of course he has, being a Ben-Ha... being who he once was). She used to be a junior Tamassran, this big, soft woman with a huge burn mark on her cheek and Antivan-made adornments on her horns. She defied the Qun when the Arvaraad came to chain one of her favourite students, a little girl who turned out to be a Saar... a mage. The girl died, in an explosion of magic that warped Issala's skin - but she still defended her to the last, choosing her over the Qun. Because that girl was family - just like the Chargers are family. Just like the Inquisition is family. This is what Bull thinks of, when Issala holds on to him - and glancing up at her, he reads an affirmation of this in her eyes, bright-yellow and speckled with Fade green, and brimming over with silent tears. Breathing in the powdery drizzle, he grunts a brisk 'Thanks, boss' - which would seem weird to an outsider, for sure (thanking her for touching him? for getting weepy?), but is not weird to them. Because this is what friendship is.  
  
  
Friendship is when Varric settles more comfortably on the makeshift bench by the side of a roaring fire and flaps his hand against the splintering wood, as a welcoming gesture to the Herald, Nakamoa Lavellan, nicknamed Nana by the children she would often baby-sit back in her clan, before a herb-gathering mission gone wrong resulted in her stumbling on the Conclave and being appointed by a bunch of shemlen as their goddess... or something. She accepts the invitation eagerly, crackling her joins and stretching her throbbing weary limbs, as she fire's warmth swaddles her in a fuzzy, protective blanket. And suddenly, it strikes her that this is what a hahren would do - an older elf, weary and perhaps a little downcast after seeing too many years rustle by, like dry leaves carried by the sad, grey autumn wind. After that thought, comes a second one: she not only acts like a hahren, she feels like one. Mournful over something she has lost but can never regain. Which... Which is not like her at all. She used to be so cheerful, so full of jokes and songs to amuse and delight and soothe her precious little da'len flock; and now, she is oddly empty on the inside, with a drab veil cast over her eyes and draining the world around her of half its colour; even the supposedly dazzling golden fire somehow looks faded, muted to her, more like a picture of a fire in an old book than an actual cheerfully crackling blaze. Startled by this change within herself, she cannot help frowning - and when Varric asks her what's wrong, she explains it to him as best she can, though not as much for the sake of informing the dwarf of her troubles (she does not expect him to care, to be honest) as for helping herself figure out her feelings by putting them into words. But, to her astonishment, the dwarf does care; he gives her an earnest, sincere nod, and lifts his short arm to pat her on the back. 'Yeah,' he says gravely. 'It's hard to be all sunshine and sparkles when the world is drowning in demon shit and your old friends are scattered all over the place, putting themselves in Maker alone knows what kind of crazy danger... But you know what - sometimes you gotta pretend that you are still the same, still with a roguish twinkle in your eye and a smug smirk on your lips... Because if you don't... You might just fall apart'. And after she is finished talking, Nana edges closer to him and silently squeezes his hand, a tiny voice in her mind murmuring that she just might find all this Fade-induced insanity a little bit more bearable with this dwarf around. And that this - this is what friendship is.  
  
  
Friendship is when Saarath Adaar, a blue-eyed, unsettlingly rake-thin Qunari with sawn-off horns and stitching scars around her mouth, glides like a wraith among the creaking cots where the wounded soldiers toss and turn, their breaths like gusts of scorching summer wind. She kneels next to each of them, whipping back the long silvery braid that keeps dangling down and getting in the way, and gloves her hands in gently chiming healing magic - a refreshing autumn rain that brings an end to the sweltering heat. Very often, far more often than she could possibly have hoped, her spellcraft does take effect, and the soldier opens their heavy, swollen eyelids, the dim feverish glaze lifted off their eyes, and, fingering weakly at the gnarled stretch of healed-up skin that once used to burn like a splash of lava, mumbles a husky thank-you. This always makes Saarath tear up with joy, while a disembodied voice chants rhythmically somewhere from behind her back, 'Whole, healthy, happy, all by my hand. The hand that used to be stiff and cold and wilted, drowning in icy chains like a nest of snakes. They bound my hands because they thought I was going to do harm, to hiss curses and hurtle magic and hurt, hurt, hurt people unless I was stopped. But I have learned that, apart from hurting, I can undo the hurt caused by others. I am not a dangerous thing any more'. And every time it speaks to her - of her, but also of itself - Saarath looks up and opens her palm, beckoning the voice's owner to hold her hand. And he always comes to her, stepping out of nothingness, the rim of his oversized hat flapping in the breeze like the sail of a ship, and slips her fingers into his. He is not quite sure what it means, but it helps her do her helping, so he is only too glad to oblige. And they complete the rest of their round side by side, a former Saarebas and an odd spirit boy, seldom speaking but feeling wonderfully soothed by each other's presence. Because this is what friendship is.  
  
  
Friendship is when Vivienne strides through the merchant galleries of Val Royeaux, arm in arm with a lanky, blonde, tattooed elf, and shoots a petrifying icy glare at any masked gossiper who, not having recognized her companion as Arryn Lavellan, the chosen of Andraste, starts whispering that the high-class clothing stores are not the proper place to bring a knife-ear to. With an impeccably refined smile and a carefully balanced dose of honey and venom poured into her words, the Imperial Enchantress navigates the world of Orlesian fashion, having the traders roll out their finest fabrics, puff small roseate clouds of their sweetest perfumes, and even fish out a coveted little box of dazzling glitter (with actual gold dust mixed in), because 'darling, surely you have not forgotten the favour you owe me'. And when she is done, when the series of dives into dressing rooms is complete, Arryn emerges transformed, with his wiry frame swathed in glimmering silks, a fluffy weather from his dashingly cocked hat curling round his shoulders, and just a few dashes of make-up highlighting his pale eyes... But not hiding his ritual markings, oh no - he is going to flaunt them proudly in the face of every Orlesian he comes across! His poor old Keeper and mentor would probably have a heart attack if she saw him like this, dressed up more lavishly than all shems she has seen in her lifetime combined; but her reaction would be nothing compared to the outraged hisses of the same faceless dolls they passed on their way in. A rabbit - and a godless mage, no less! - walking among humans as an equal! Spending his gold on the things he likes, like a normal person! How dare he! How dare he! Yes, he dares - he dares to enjoy himself, to treat himself to the little pleasures of luxury, without cowering fearfully away from human clothing, as though he had touched that does not belong to him. He dares to mingle with the 'proper society', and to challenge the shemlen, one and all, to a match of their own Game, which he will win with flying colours. Because he has been taught by the best, by the master of rising above the people who despise you for what you are, and making them bow in respect instead. By Vivienne. Who is now watching him saunter triumphantly through Val Royeaux with a little smirk of pride. Because this is what friendship is, is it not?  
  
  
Friendship is when Solas catches himself smiling when he watches a swarm of curious spirits flutter round Kulak Cadash, the Dwarven Herald who, after accidentally tapping into the power of the Fade, has gained an ability to experience dreams, utterly unexpected, and thoroughly baffling, if you were to judge by the blank, loose-jawed, bulgy-eyed face he made when he first saw 'sodding pictures in his head'. But that was long ago; now, with Solas' help, the child of the Stone has begun to adjust to the journeys along the winding path of visions. And sometimes, he actually enjoys dreaming, especially when, after pestering Solas with demands to 'introduce him to this joint's good crowd', he gets to meet friendly spirits, which, in turn, are irresistibly drawn to someone so alien to their native realm (even the most passive ones cannot but stir at the approach of someone so bafflingly solid). Given Kulak's gruff, pointedly rude demeanour, and his tendency to flaunt his physical strength and past feats of violence, Solas has to admit to being briefly concerned that interacting with him would twist the spirits' nature, and turn them into malevolent, demonic entities that would reflect the dwarf's key negative traits (which have so very often infuriated his elven companion). Like the flaring, lava-like Rage, and its many-faced varieties: Cruelty, Aggression, Bloodlust... But, as it turns out, he needn't have worried: no matter how much time this brutish Carta thug spends around spirits, they remain unchanged. They are still the same Kindness and Faith and Hope; their aura is still pure and untainted, and they allow the dwarf to bask in its tingling radiance, raining white and green sparks over his outstretched arms, while he grins happily and listens with reverent attention to the stories they choose go tell him, sometimes using his imagination to crown the spirits' heads with flower chains, because this delights him so. He is less loud in the Fade, less brash and short-tempered - less like the roughly chiselled image of his kind that Solas has had in his mind. And frankly, he is uncertain how to feel about this; he is uncertain that it is a good thing, this smile that touches his lips when he hears Kulak chuckle and call the spirits 'you cute little green ghost children'. Things will be more difficult now, once he regains his stolen Focus and prepares to use it for its true purpose; this discomforts him greatly - but as this hour has not yet come, for now at least he can allow himself a brief moment of idyll, teaching the Marked dwarf the ways of the Fade and looking on fondly at his games with spirits. After all, this is what friendship is - or so he heard.  
  
  
Friendship is when Maaras Adaar, a hornless Vashothari mercenary who has spent most of his life with a full-faced helmet concealing his features, so as to fit in better among humans, tosses that protective metal mask aside, earning himself an approving hoot from Sera. Inhaling deeply, he tilts his head back, and lets the fresh evening breeze caress his skin, while his eyes travel with a content idleness over the rooftops of Skyhold, which are bathed in the the liquid gold river streaming from the setting sun. His mouth is still full of lumpy, half-raw, half-charred cookie dough, which he just holds over his tongue, not quite ready to bring himself to swallow. But even though this lump in his mouth is far from savoury, it does not ruin the moment for him. Because the cookies' taste does not really matter - what matters is the little figure of the one who tried to bake there ridiculous things for him, cross-legged and rocking back and forth precariously on the roof's very edge. Maaras knows about Sera's history with the baker and the woman who raised her; he knows that, like him, she has been taught to hate herself for what she is, to squeeze out every last bit of 'elfiness' out of herself, just like he has been trying to squeeze out all of his... 'Qunariness', to pass himself as an exceptionally tall human, to keep a distance from his horned, glaringly grey-skinned family members - who, even as Vashoth, still clung on to some remnants of Qunari culture and customs, and were the ones that tossed the nickname Maaras after him when he left, as an insult and a warning. A weighted word that means both 'alone' and 'no-one'. And for the longest time, he has, indeed, felt that he is no-one, racked on the inside by guilt over being born the way he is; just the way Sera has, he suspects. She does not like to stop and think about things, this impatient little girl, never the quietest, never the gentlest - but if she did, she would have discovered that she and Maaras are very much alike. For her, baking cookies again, going from 'pride cookies' to 'Inquisition cookies', is the same as embracing his Qunari name (after years of going under 'Martin') has been for him - along with taking off his helmet and showing his face. His true face. He still cannot swallow the cookies - but he nods enthusiastically when Sera remarks, 'It's good, innit? We're good!' and ponders to himself if this is what friendship is.  
  
  
Friendship is when Maedhros Lavellan, a stern, reticent Dalish mage with deep lines etched into his weather-worn skin and threads of silver glinting in his long ginger hair, comes down to the stables, carving tools under his arm, and spends the afternoon in the company of the man he has come to know as Blackwall. They both work their craft in silence - and for them, it is not the least bit awkward or constraining or boring. For it is not a tense silence - not the same kind of silence that they used like a heavy pall to shroud their past regrets, the shameful tales of a Keeper whose negligence resulted in the death of his whole clan, and a fugitive soldier for hire who once looked upon his men as they chopped through the doors of a carriage to reach for the children that hid quivering inside, their morbidly cheerful song about a bird that sees dead people cut to an abrupt, bloody end. No - this silence is not like a concealing pall; it is more like a pillar, for it supports them both, and bolsters their strength for the next day, which they will likely face in battle side by side. Two grizzled, world-weary men who shall be forever tainted by the unwashable splatters of blood - and yet still press on, fighting for the good of the whole world, always coming to each other's aid should their quest turn too dangerous. And this silence of theirs is a pact that reaffirms this. Their silence is friendship.  
  
  
Friendship is when Naali Adaar, a brawny, rough-voiced Vashoth woman who used to run a mercenary company (inherited from her mother, or so Leliana's files say) prior to getting 'roped into' the Inquisition, works together with Cassandra to pitch up the tents for a brief reprieve on their journey through the blighted wastelands, stripped down almost to their smalls in order not to completely melt away in the fiery maw of the desert - while the men in their adventuring party look on at them from afar, dazedly admiring their sculpted muscles and the bold dashes of scars across their sweating flesh. When their task is complete, they shake each other's hand with a wordless nod of appreciation, and lower themselves on a not-so-scathingly-hot boulder in the shade, leaving the men to complete the rest of the work around the campsite. Slanting her eyes in distaste at the damp spot under her arm, Naali grouses, 'All these waterfall thingies are well and good, but I am so pestering Josie to arrange one of them proper baths when we get back home...' - and then claps her mouth shut, stunned by her own choice of words. 'Home'... She has never been at home anywhere, not really; more like, floated about all sorts of weird far-off place where her work took her, shunned and pointed at with fear and disgust whenever she went. And from what she can gather, Cassandra - who is an absolute bloody delight to carve shit up with, honest! - has been feeling this way too. Like Naali, she has known little in life apart from her work, not taking root anywhere like a stern-faced tumbleweed. Which is why Naali is ready to let out the stupidest, the most shameful girlish scream when Cassandra holds her stupefied gaze and says in agreement, 'Yes, I suppose Skyhold has become rather like a home to us, hasn't it? Books... Books always say that home is where one's friends are, and it... it could be true'. Well, Naali is not a fan of mushy fluttering nonsense (the only difference between herself and Cassandra that she can think of) - but she'll be damned if she doesn't agree this once. Home is where your friends are. And this thing they have going right here - it's friendship.  
  
  
Friendship is when Dorian, on the way to the tavern, to both shock and dull his senses with the slurpy swill they call mead, stops in his tracks and comes over to offer a comforting embrace to young Cassia, a small, short-sighted, bushy-eyebrowed Laetan that apparently travelled south as an unobtrusive junior scribe in Erimond's entourage, only to wake up - quite in a storybook fashion - after a mysterious blackout with her hand ripped up by the glowing Anchor that her boss's master covets so much. She is very weepy, the poor child - and, while Dorian gets more than mildly annoyed by it on occasion, he can understand why her tear ducts are so easy to disturb. Sneered at for her origins and pushed out of the way by her 'betters' all her life, Cassia is finding the weight of her lofty mission far too much for her fragile shoulders. And add to that the insults she has to endure on a daily basis, for being an 'evil Tevinter'. Dorian can shrug those off with his enviable, effortless elegance - but he cannot pretend that they do not sting. This is why, whenever he sees Cassia crying, he abandons whatever he has been doing, and offers that tactile comfort that seems to be a bit of a tradition among the lower classes. 'Hush now, puella,' he murmurs to her, playfully ruffling her clumsily cut hair (not quite as much a disaster as Sera's, but still pretty close). 'These hilarious bumpkins may seriously believe that you and I drink the blood of the infants for breakfast, but we both know it isn't true. So why don't we go on with this marvellous day, our heads held high with the thought that we are better than all those cardboard cut-out magisters they scare their children with?'. And when Cassia repeats breathlessly after him 'We are better', he finds himself thinking how splendid it would have been if Felix had lived long enough to get to know this silly sniffling child better, and what an incredible world-saving Tevinter crew they would all have made... And there is a soft pang in his heart that knocks the wind out of him for a fleeting moment - a shot of pain that is both bitter and yet strangely sweet. Which, he supposes, is what friendship is in general. Bittersweet.


End file.
